Why It Felt Selfish To Grieve After Losing My Brother

So I kept the pain to myself.

I remember the day in vivid detail, and although he's been dead longer than he lived, I am quickly drawn to tears at the mere writing of this sentence. We all expect to lose our parents at some point. And losing a child is an almost daily thought and fear of all parents. But the loss of a brother in his youth comes wholly unexpected and changes the landscape of your world so quickly that it can be hard to grasp.

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I was 19 on the day I learned of my brother's death to a drug overdose. He was 22 or 23. I can't be sure because I have a mental block about the date. My parents call me every year to remind me and within weeks I find it impossible to put a date to it.

My father didn't say anything as he walked past, but his face was ashen and tense as if holding back something explosive and painful. Without a word I followed him into the master bedroom where my mother was reading a book. He blurted out as though he hadn't the strength to hold it in any longer, "Philip is dead." His face left no doubt of the sincerity of his statement. And the wail that came from my mother racked me to my core. It was like the cumulative pain of every mother who ever lost a child and it haunts me to this day, some 26 years later. My father wrapped his arms around my mother and they grieved deeply.

I stood there. A cold wind blew through me and seemed to strip me of all emotion. A numbness enveloped me. In a way, I understood my parents' grief much better than I did my own. Theirs was so overwhelming, and I knew instinctively that there could be no greater loss than that of a child. My grief seemed almost selfish by comparison. So I held it mostly to myself.

I found my tears a day after the news, and then it seemed like crying would be my permanent state. I cried with my parents, but mostly I cried alone. When you're 19, few of your friends have suffered such a loss. They don't know how to react. They don't know what to say. People came by to comfort my parents. They brought books on losing a child. I walked around in a fog, touching things. Walls, fabrics, rocks, trees. Assuring myself the world was still there. Solid. Real. It was a strange time and it changed me forever.

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My brother was a Dead Head, following the Grateful Dead around. Addicted to the bohemian and drug-fueled life style. He was popular and fun. The girls thought he was sweet, and the boys found him cool and easygoing. He loved music and cars and could disassemble or build anything. He was my big brother, so he was also a pain the way older siblings can be. And while I took my share of abuse from him, he also protected me. Protected me from his own influence. From the lifestyle choices he was making. Told me drugs were not for me. For all Phil's many years of drug abuse, he never once asked me or allowed me to get high with him. That's how I best know his love.

I don't have much of my brother. A tie-dye peace symbol banner he made and hung on his wall. And a notebook where he jotted down things he needed to remember. People's phone numbers, money he borrowed and owed, or lent and was due, doodles. I like the notebook and can see him in action in my head rather than in still life like the photographs that seem to crowd out real memories.

My teenage daughters have known of Phil their whole lives. And sadly, I think I have presented him more as a cautionary tale than a real person. Maybe it's time to visit the grave I have never been to. Maybe it's time to share the fun stories and adventures and laughter of the brothers we were. Yes. Maybe it's time they met their Uncle Phil.

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